Little Baby Rattles
by Hazelline
Summary: Nightmare story from the point of view of Barty Crouch Junior. He dreams of his mother and father, and their supposed baby, then the dementor comes for him... then he's back in Azkaban. NOTE: Old story!


Little Baby Rattles

By Hazelline

Barty was on his hands and knees. He was crawling into the sitting room of his home, glancing around as though he was a shell-shocked cat. His fair-haired mother, Margaret, smiled at him from her place on the sofa, knitting a maroon scarf for her husband; Barty (senior) was over in the big brown armchair, working on some files for his work.

His father was the Minister of Magic for the Ministry of Magic, and he was forever working, shadows under his eyes. Mrs Crouch looked just as pale as her lover did, as though she mirrored his feelings of tiredness, even though she didn't have a job. 

Barty smiled and went to curl up on the rug near the fire. He was very warm, very content. His father was grunting in his frustration of hard work ever now and then, and he could hear the _click click click_ of his mother's knitting needles. There was a rattling sound somewhere near his ear, but he ignored it, guessing it to be no more than… no, what was it? 

A baby's rattle; a baby was crying, too.

__

Why?

Barty reluctantly opened his eyes, and looked over, near his mother. Her knitting now lay on the coffee table, and she was holding a cute baby in a sky blue baby-grow. His father had crossed over to the pair, and was shaking the hand of the little child, murmuring, 'Some day, kid, you're going to be the Minister for Magic. Would you like that?'

His mother gave him a glowing look, and the baby gurgled happily.

'Would you like that, little Barty Junior?'

Barty slid along the floor. He felt more like a lizard now, slithering along the carpet, only with arms and legs. 'What are you talking about?' he croaked. '_I_'_m _Barty Junior!'

His father turned, and looked at him in disgust. He raised an arm, and slowly pointed his index finger at his son. 'You are no son of mine. _I have no son_.' His eyes bulging, he disappeared.

'Get away from my child, you dirty snake!'

Barty was frightened. He lurched forward, desiring his mother's comfort. He tried to say, 'Mother! Mother, don't – I haven't done anything – don't let him put me there!' but all that came out was a _hiss _sort of noise. So his mother wasn't using a metaphor. She was saying it literally.

Utterly confused, he continued forward, but she slapped him hard, and this time he felt it, on the side of his cheek…

Then he was sitting on the mat next to the front door.

There was something gliding down the stairs. A black-robed, concealed face, something. He screamed and screamed for his parents, too petrified to move from his vacant point at the foot of the stairway. There was laughter, and a baby giggle from the bright living room, which was visible from his current position. 

The dementor was still advancing upon him. It was drawing ever nearer, its rattling breath audible, its black robes coming out in billows behind it. Barty began to mutter incoherently under his breath, staring around wildly, for something recognizable, for something to help him… for a _hope_…

It drew very near, there was a flash of green light, and there were bodies… so many bodies… then he opened his eyes, his eyelashes drenched in tears. He was in his Azkaban cell. He was cold, and there was no hope for him. He would never be with his mother again; or his father, but it wasn't as though he cared that much.

He sat up shakily, trying to comprehend the dream that was slipping as easily as water away from him. His mother had been pregnant, she had told him the time before last when she had visited him. It had preyed on his mind, but he had seemed stronger because it was a new thought. Then she visited him again, with more news.

Mrs Crouch had had a miscarriage, due to stress. She didn't say it, but Barty knew it was because of him… because of the way his father had gulped and looked away, staring instead at Sirius Black's cell. Because of the way there were tears in her eyes, as she looked into his, a replica of her own. Because of the fact that everything was always his fault. 

He was practically a squib; he had felt unloved by his father since he was at least three-years-old; a girl had never loved him; he had never had any proper friends… He had always been bullied, for being weedy and weak, and most of the time ill, so that everyone accused him of faking. So he would show them all. He turned to the dark arts.

And now he was in a cell in Azkaban. 

Barty looked over at Sirius Black's cell, and saw his dark eyes flash back at him. What was it that he was accused of again? Murdering James and Lily Potter, somehow? Well, Barty knew the truth. It wasn't Black, it was Pettigrew. He was one of the few people that did. If the practice of the dark arts hadn't completely drained him of sentimentalism, then he would have had pity for Black. As it were, he could only sit and stare at him, wondering what it was like to lose his freedom for a crime he hadn't committed.

But it didn't matter, Barty thought to himself. Black didn't matter, and neither did Pettigrew… the Potters didn't matter, his dead brother or sister didn't matter, and his father certainly didn't matter. Even the bullies, and the non-existent girlfriend weren't of much importance. 

All that Barty cared for were the dark arts, Voldemort and himself. _I am the most important being in the entire world_, thought Barty, clenching his fists as the tears rolled down his cheeks. Nothing matter. Nothing. Except himself.

A/N Well, guys, what did you think? I needed a quick break from _What Keeps Us Alive_, so I thought I'd _finally _get this done! The descriptions of the dementors are from _Prisoner of Azkaban_, and the quotes of the Crouch family are on pages 517 and 518 of the British version of _Goblet of Fire_. Hope you enjoyed it!


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